


Purification

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Tenacity has a need, and only Roy knows how to help him.





	Purification

Tenacity Williams is a bastard. Roy knows it well. A bastard, a head-hunter—the best on Mars (and the most expensive).

He’s also loyal, in his own way, and broken. That part of Roy that has never quite quit the Source urges him to offer Tenacity succour—but of what sort? Perhaps it would be fitting: him, a failure in the eyes of the Source, offering comfort to a man who hunts people for money. What a pair.

But when Tenacity comes to him, dishevelled, his eyes almost colourless, his lips thin, Roy can’t imagine anyone else being there for Tenacity. Broken or not, killer or not, Tenacity is his responsibility.

‘I am unclean,’ Tenacity rasps out, and his breath is infused with spirit, but Roy doesn’t wince away. He catches Tenacity, nearly going down with him.

He wants to tell him that few people are ‘clean’. Wants to draw him into a debate about cleanliness, purity, and how these concepts are created to— But this is not what Tenacity needs right now.

‘Can you—’

‘Yes.’

Yes, he can. For Tenacity, he can.

He manages to walk Tenacity to the table near his hideout—but Tenacity refuses to sit on a chair; instead, he sinks to his knees, despite Roy’s efforts to keep him from that. ‘That is not done like this, old hound… I need sand…’

‘No.’ That word stops Roy. Tenacity folds his legs under himself, puts his palms on his thighs. Head bowed. He looks like he needs a drink, looks like he contemplates emptying his crossrifle— Roy pushes this thought away and waits.

‘None of the… the symbolic shit,’ Tenacity manages. ‘The full thing. I need…’ He lifts his eyes, and they are so bright that Roy has to look away for a moment.

‘Yeah. All right. Just let me get everything.’

It won’t be _everything_ , exactly: the place is not ideal, and Roy doesn’t have the circlet or the full coat (he _does_ have one, stored away, but he won’t take it out; that’s not who he is anymore, that’s not what he ever was). But he has all the essentials: a bag of salt, a flask of water, a knife that he makes sure is clean.

When he returns, Tenacity is still there, in the same position. He looks up, gaze flicking over the things Roy carries—and for a moment Tenacity’s face pinches in uncertainty. ‘Roy, I don’t want to force you—’

‘It’s okay,’ he assures Tenacity, putting the flask on the floor, then the salt bag, too, loosens the strings.

Tenacity holds up his hands to him with the most vulnerable expression that Roy has ever seen on his face, eyes glistening. Roy stands on his knees in front of him, disregarding the hard metal surface of the floor, and takes Tenacity’s hands in his.

And begins.

Words come easy to him through the sandstorm of years, as though he’d never left… But he _had_ , and though words are the same, _he_ is different.

The drone of syllables shaped by his lips is soothing—it is designed to be so, even if non-Technomancers (or non-linguists) wouldn’t understand without translation. The tone carries the meaning all on its own.

Roy holds Tenacity’s hands in his left one, pours water over them with his right, letting it spill. Then he cups Tenacity’s hands, limp, in his right, and takes the knife, slices over the open palms. Tenacity flinches but doesn’t pull away. The slice is shallow enough to not cause injury, it only needs to bare some flesh underneath and to draw up blood. Roy puts the knife aside. Words are detached from him. They are coming from everywhere, permeating everything, weaving into a cocoon around them. The whole universe—in this one moment, one place. Edges, boundaries blurred.

He reaches into the bag with his left hand, takes the salt—(‘As much as you can hold, child; allow it to spill and return to Mars’)—and lets it trickle between his fingers onto Tenacity’s sliced palms.

He holds on as Tenacity winces and tries to pull away—on instinct, to hide from pain. Roy holds him—because that pain is needed. The pain of killing, of death, of the blood Tenacity has spilt. Roy feels Tenacity’s heart, its frantic beat—but doesn’t soothe it. Not yet.

When his hand is empty of salt, and the salt has soaked the blood of the cuts in Tenacity’s cupped palms, and Tenacity’s hands are trembling in his, and Tenacity’s eyes are glassy and distant, Roy changes his hands again. His right one supporting Tenacity’s—but not restraining.

He takes the flask once more and pours the rest of water over Tenacity’s palms, washing away the salt, the blood… The pain. As he does so, he stretches his field to touch Tenacity’s heart with his power, and synchronises it with his own. Soothing. Calming.

_Your blood is mine. Your pain is mine. Your suffering is mine._

_You are not unclean._

He puts the flask away when it’s empty, and closes his hands over Tenacity’s, then finishes the incantation, letting it fade in the air, and presses a kiss to Tenacity’s forehead.

They sit like this for a while as the world falls apart into separate things, Roy holding and warming Tenacity’s hands, guiding his heart, his lungs. Letting the tears on Tenacity’s face run dry on their own.

There is nobody else who can do this.

There is nobody else who _should_.


End file.
